


There are Roses That Come Without Seeking

by Lorinand_Lost (Barefoot_Dancer)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Masquerade, tss2020advent14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/pseuds/Lorinand_Lost
Summary: Curufin adjusted his mask, a likeness of a red fox; with no other opportunities for diversion, he supposed he would accept another flute of wine from the next server and dance as he might with the next willing suitor.As fate would have it, the suitor appeared before the wine.  As much as Curufin prided himself on his keen senses, he did not notice the elf behind him until his voice came warm and low in his ear.
Relationships: Curufin | Curufinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2020 ADVENT CALENDAR





	There are Roses That Come Without Seeking

**Author's Note:**

> Obligate warning since they’re technically half-cousins 
> 
> Second obligate warning for what I guess one could call identity porn, as they are initially unaware of the identity of the other. One could argue it borders on dub-con, hence the tag "chose not to use warnings" rather than my standard "none apply." It's worth noting that the sex is consensual, though Curufin is surprised to realize his partner is Finrod. 
> 
> Title from Heart of my Own by Basia Bulat. I think it kind of characterized Curufin and Finrod's complex thoughts about each other

Curufin slouched idly under a pillar, holding a flute of sparkling wine. From here, though he could see the masked partygoers spinning across the tiled floor, he was presently content to watch the bubbles rise in his glass and let the music wash through him. He was not averse to a good party, and even he would admit that Finrod's Midwinter festivities were second only to those of Tirion in their splendor, but networking in this anonymous throng would be impossible. 

Celegorm had slipped away some time ago, ostensibly to avail himself of the trestle tables along the mezzanine, but Curufin could see his grey wolf mask in the crowd, and his hands around the waist of some mouthful of a starling. His son was nowhere to be seen either, though he had spoken that afternoon of meeting some of the other smiths for a foray to the Midwinter night markets in the lower town. Curufin adjusted his own mask, a likeness of a red fox; with no other opportunities for diversion, he supposed he would accept another flute of wine from the next server and dance as he might with the next willing suitor. 

As fate would have it, the suitor appeared before the wine. As much as Curufin prided himself on his keen senses, he did not notice the elf behind him until his voice came warm and low in his ear. 

"Peace, _mellon_ , I mean you no harm," said the strange nér, holding out a steadying hand. "I wish only to ask you for a dance, if I may." 

Curufin gave his suitor an appraising look. His kingfisher mask, beaded in sapphire and crowned with a spray of primary feathers, covered his entire face. Ever crafty, Curufin searched for a marker to identify the stranger, but even his hair was covered, tucked under the hood of his cloak, richly embroidered with the suggestion of speckled wings. Curufin could see only the sparkle of his eyes, perhaps the suggestion of a smile through the parted beak of his mask. 

The suitor held out his hand expectantly. Curufin, deciding that a quick turn across the floor was preferable to an evening spent sulking, swallowed his thimbleful of wine, palmed his glass off on the nearest server, and accepted. His partner was perhaps a hair taller, his bearing dignified, and Curufin consented to let him lead and to be swept forward in the crush of dancers. 

The song the the musicians were playing was fast-footed and breathless. The dulcimers threw sound up into the vaulted ceilings, whose milky glass tiling passed the music about playfully before releasing it as a canorous drone that Curufin felt in his breastbone. The style required each dancer be passed among strangers before returning to their partner, which precluded any length of conversation. It did offer Curufin, from his vantage point in the arms of a tall nís costumed as a boreal lion, an excellent view of the stranger's lean legs. 

The music shifted to a slower courting tune, a season staple from Tirion. On cue, the stranger pulled Curufin into the cage of his arms. Someone had produced an ocarina, whose tune hung and wove through the air. 

After some time, the nér asked "Tell me, why is someone who dances with such grace relegated to a post under an archway?" 

Curufin laughed at that, showing a bit of canine. "As useful as state functions are, I tire easily of mindless babble." 

"I do hope you aren't bored by a fête of my own design," his partner said with mock recrimination. 

"You are a lord on the planning committee?" Curufin said, trying to place him by voice among the number of nobles he had worked with in the weeks prior. "I cannot say I recognize you, and you do not have the hands of a craftsman." 

"One could say I was party to the proceedings," he replied. "But here's what I really would like to know: In your estimation of me, what sort of hands _do_ I have?" His partner asked, beak close to his ear. He smelled of something dark, and citrusy. 

Curufin flushed slightly – perhaps from the wine, from the proximity of his partner, or from his subtle insinuations. He looked down to their hands interlaced. "I suppose you have the hands of someone who has held a sword - though not recently - and you have the calluses of one who writes frequently and at length, so I conclude you are more competent than some of the nuisances and fops I deal with." 

"Spoken like a true smith," laughed the nér. "What hand have you played in the Midwinter planning?" 

Curufin felt a stirring of pride. "The instrument strings I made on commission for the musicians' guild. My team was one of three overseeing the new crystal tableware. My mask is stitched with carnelian and vermillion glass beads that I hand-drew." He paused contemplatively, adding "And I took more requests than I can count for petty baubles and costume trinkets for the rich and distinguished." Curufin's eyes idled in their arc across his partner's body upon the rings on his fingers. 

"I suppose I am not the only one with competent hands tonight," murmured his partner. "My compliments, for you must truly possess a rare – skillset." Curufin was suddenly glad for his mask, and for his dark skin. 

The crowd was beginning to settle down; the old guard drifted away, though the dancing would continue until the wee hours of the morning as the servers were replaced and given leave to partake in the festivities. Curufin decided to test the waters. "I can already see parties splintering away toward the refreshment tables and a chance to rest their dancing slippers – or toward the quiet of the labyrinthine corridors of the keep, and indulgences of another sort." 

"As captivating as this conversation is," the other nér said, "can I interest you in continuing it somewhere more private?" His eyes glinted behind his mask, intent obvious and just shy of predation. 

Curufin took a breath. "I would not be averse to – a moment of indulgence." He could have sworn the beak of his partner's mask snapped shut in quiet satisfaction. 

It was all they could do to exit the hall with a graceful demeanor and not that of hot-blooded youths just past their majority. That evaporated as soon as they were far enough down the main corridor to be out of eyeshot, and Curufin yanked the nér down a side hallway and into a shallow alcove. 

Curufin went straight for his throat, pressing kisses to the soft crease between neck and jaw. His hands fumbled at the fastenings of his shirt, sliding on the rich brocade. In return, a hand cupped him between his legs, and another covered his mouth to silence his moan. "I don't think I need to remind you," said the other nér, "that even down this hall, hidden as we are, they can still hear you if you cry out." 

It was true – Curufin could dimly hear the strains of music that floated out of the ballroom, the chatter of late-comers and the click of boots down the main corridor. He was aware that at any moment, they could be discovered. He was also aware of the aching hardness in his breeches. "Undress me," he commanded. 

His partner was happy to oblige, boxing him up against the corridor wall, running his hands appreciatively down Curufin's body. As he cast aside his outer shirt, he paused briefly to thumb aside the open neckline of his underclothes. "Now that's an interesting tattoo," he remarked, "In a style I've seen but rarely. It reminds me of the work of the Laiquendi... The only other I know who adopted that style is my kinsman, third-born of Fëanor. Though, you are not he, with your dark hair - though you share the same haughty bearing." 

Curufin tensed slightly. "Will that be a problem?" He asked. Even now, there were some who were averse to the presence of kinslayers in Nargothrond. 

"No," the other nér responded, straightening the neckline of Curufin's smallclothes. His exploration drifted south, and Curufin gasped when his clever fingers slipped inside his breeches to twist at his cock. "And truthfully, I am eager to see to what use we can put that proud mouth of yours."

Itching to plunder that sweet-talking mouth, Curufin reached to untie his partner's mask. "Kiss me and find out," he began to say, but in a dizzying rush found his face pressed against the mosaic tiling of the wall. One hand trapped was trapped by the other nér, and with the other he braced himself against collapse. The length of the nér's body was taut against his back; even fully dressed, Curufin could feel the strength in his core, in the arms that held him captive. 

"Isn't anonymity the point of the festival?" Quipped his partner, rutting against him. Curufin let his breathing settle, contemplating the mosaic pattern of the wall, sea greens and blues mimicking waves on the ocean. In the shuffle, the other nér’s hair had slipped from inside his hood. It lay over Curufin’s shoulder. Golden. 

“When you said you were party to the planning-“ began Curufin, before that clever hand found its way back in his breeches, thumbing across his foreskin. His desire was undeniable now, almost painful. He gasped again when the other nér struck up a measured rhythm. 

Curufin’s eyes drift to the hand that held him against the wall. Now at eye level, he could see the pair of rings on the index finger. Citrine and gold, unmistakable craftsmanship. He remembered those twin rings, and for whom he had made them. 

He spoke again, voice hoarse but strong. "I fashioned a number of Midwinter pieces, including ones for the King. Tell me, from which smith did you procure them?"

Even though Finrod had mandated that guests come in disguise, the King himself had been easy to identify during the ball by the sparkle of the Nauglamír around his neck. Even his costume had been ostentatious, a full mask in the moon-faced likeness of a barn owl, a train of snow-white feathers to match. Curufin had seen him, during the ball, he had seen – _a nér in a full mask, identified implicitly by a bit of jewelry_. Yet now...

"Will that be a problem?" Finrod mimicked sardonically. He gave another cruel tug to Curufin's cock, light enough to grant small relief, hard enough to leave him wanting.

"No, I don't suppose there will be," Curufin replied.

"Good... good," Finrod said. He forced Curufin to his knees. The flagstones were cold beneath him. He made to touch himself, but Finrod knocked his hand away with a slippered foot. "Not yet; I think you can wait a bit longer."

Finrod kept one hand tangled in his braids, and used the other to undo his lacings. Curufin moved to tilt his mask up, but Finrod pushed it back down over his eyes. "Better leave that on, hmm?" He mused, freeing his length from his trousers. "I think we're reasonably alone here, but if you wish to chance the whole of Nargothrond knowing how eager you are to fall to your knees, that's your choice." 

"The real question is," Curufin ground out from his position between Finrod's knees, "If you're here getting your cock sucked, who's running the kingdom?" 

Finrod waved his free hand carelessly. "My man-at-arms, Edrahil. I begged a few hours of freedom by swapping disguises. He's a good sort, makes a decent False King, though I feel bad for leaving him covered in more suitors than the poor fellow know what to do with." 

Curufin rolled his eyes. "What a task that must be, entertaining an entourage of willing morsels; I can see why you were desperate to escape." 

"Let it never be said," laughed Finrod, "that I scorn bedding those of abrasive character in favor of those tame confections seeking to curry favor with a king." 

Curufin responded by taking Finrod to the root and hollowing his cheeks. The surge of sensation forced Finrod's head back against the wall. With the chill of the tile seeping into his skull, he mused "Only you could suck a cock like you were delivering a divine punishment." 

"If you come on my mask, I will bite your manhood clean off."

"Peace; Eru, you're precious. Someday I think we should replace that stick up your ass with something else, hmm? Pity I don't have any oil."

Nose pressed against golden curls, Curufin snorted. He swallowed once, deliberately, knowing before it happened how Finrod's eyes would fall shut, how his the muscles of his thighs would tense, how he would reflexively force Curufin further down his length. 

Finrod worked his hands deeper into Curufin's braids, thoroughly undoing hours of Celebrimor's careful work. He thrust once, experimentally, into the wet heat of Curufin's mouth, and looked down as if to ask for permission. Curufin gave his assent by way of grabbing him about the hips and pulling him forward into another stuttering thrust. He seemed to get the cue then, manhandling Curufin a little as he pushed him back down onto his cock. 

Curufin had little control over these proceedings, and certainly in other circumstances Finrod would have been a more accommodating bedfellow, but as it happened he simply braced his right arm against the wall and his left upon Curufin's shoulder, and drove himself into the waiting warmth like a man seeking shelter from a storm.

The music still filtered into the corridor, mixing with the soft sounds Finrod made and couldn't contain as he rose toward his peak. Finrod hadn't undressed - just let himself out of his laces - but Curufin was aware of his own disheveled state, cock hanging out the front of his trousers, shamefully hard, dripping for anyone to see. The scene was mostly obscured by Finrod's cloak, but beyond the orange silk lining Curufin could the flicker of shadows arching down the corridor from the ignorant passersby in the main hall. At that moment, he couldn't even bring himself to care. 

The only warning Finrod gave was the tighting of his grip and the way his breath halted as he doubled over. He thrust once more, nearly choking Curufin, who swallowed around his girth, and stilled. Finrod sighed, pulling free. 

"Touch yourself," he commanded as he tucked himself back into his laces. "No, on your knees," he amended as Curufin made to rise, "I want to see you at your king's feet."

Any other day, Curufin would have had something cutting to say, but he wanted so desperately to come that he held his tongue - for possibly the first and last time of his life - and fisted his neglected cock in his hand. "I won't last much longer," he murmured.

Finrod said nothing, just ran his fingers through the braids that were unspooling themselves down Curufin's back. Curufin turned his face into the crease of Finrod's hip as he came, muffling the hoarse cry he couldn't bite back. His seed spattered onto the flagstones, and the blue silk of Finrod's dancing slippers. 

He was allowed a moment's rest before Finrod drew him back to his feet, helped him lace his clothes, corrected the angle of his mask. 

"What about your slippers?" Curufin asked in a moment of contrition. 

"I am the King," Finrod said. "I will simply walk back to my chambers. And the people will simply ignore my slippers." He paused for a moment, and then unhooked his cloak from about his shoulders. Throwing it over Curufin, he said "You, on the other hand, might benefit from discretion."

"This doesn't even match," protested Curufin, "And – and people will know I got it from you."

Finrod removed his mask, pressing the only kiss of the evening to Curufin's lips before swiftly replacing it. "No," he corrected, "if anything, they'll think you got it from Edrahil." He disappeared down the corridor and into the faint music.

**Author's Note:**

> I signed up for the masquerade prompt with one pairing in mind and one pairing only. I think Curufin and Finrod are the rare-pair of people fascinated by unhealthy relationships and games of cat and mouse. Based on my reading and interpretation of the Silmarillion, I always kind of thought of the relationship between Finrod and Curufin and Celegorm as a game of wits, with grudging respect paid while trying to pull the rug out from underneath the other party. Of course, this is a game that Finrod eventually loses. 
> 
> A note to characterization: Finrod may seem overly dominant here, and while I think he generally has a sunny disposition, he has a strong spine and won't pass up a chance to knock his cousin down a peg or two. I hope it was obvious that Finrod seems to catch onto Curufin's identity even before they leave the ballroom. 
> 
> I chose the kingfisher as Finrod's disguise for a number of reasons. It's glamorous plumage disguise its prowess as a hunter, as it is capable of diving into the water without casting a ripple. However, most die young from starvation and cold winters, so one wouldn't say they were an apex predator by any means. I was fascinated by the idea of Finrod, always beautiful, sometimes deadly, choosing something like the Kingfisher, perhaps as a morbid sort of joke with regards to his foresight of his own death. I suppose their greatest dissimilarity in character is that the kingfisher has a rather ordinary song. 
> 
> The reasoning behind Curufin and his fox mask, I assume, is self-evident. 
> 
> The bit about the music in the ballroom is as accurate a description as I can give as a musician. Glass does in fact distort sound as it reflects it. There are two non-music halls one can play in (in my experience): ones that consume your sound and make for a surreally lonesome viewing and playing experience, and ones that bounce too much sound back like a series of echoes. Personally, the latter was the vibe I was going for in this fic, the creation of a droning tone without a droning instrument. Not an important detail but I'm a nerd. 
> 
> Also I think Curufin absolutely knows how to make instrument strings, he probably does it on principle for Maglor. Personally, he's not that interested in music, but he absolutely is petty enough to learn a skill simply to do it better than the rest of Tirion.


End file.
